What's this lying on the side of the road?
Disjointed, disquieted, writhing, screeching, pained.
And there go all the cars. Whizzing by an hour, half an hour, a minute too fast for the rest of the lives on this world.
Where goes the disquiet? Where goes the lost? Each hour upon the bulwarks on the earth, risen, rising, drifted upon the broken shattered waters of this discomfort. My words are lost in the blazes, in the miraculous, in the quiet dells and dips of an average humdrum living style, where I sit and ponder upon my decisions whether real or imagined.
Lost are those who don't see the beauty in the flight, who don't see the running as well as the escape and the follow through and the relentless racing, racing past the obstacles and through the illusions and above the adversaries, the adversaries, oh the adversaries great, settling upon the fact that life lives upon each leaf, each quiet, broken item on the side of the road.
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